Chapter 3
The morning sun slanted through the paper-covered lattice windows as Ting-zhi stretched, the events of yesterday replaying in his mind.
A slow grin spread across his face. That expression on Yun-si’s face—horror, realization, then absolute mortification—had been worth every second of his own embarrassment.
Dragon rod. The absurdity of it. She’d asked with such earnest confusion, shoving that erotic huaben at his face.
He swung his legs off the bed, still chuckling. No one else ever saw her like that. Flustered, stammering, her usual dreamy composure shattered. Since young, he had loved peeling back that quiet, untouchable exterior and see the stuttering, blustering and delightful girl underneath.
A knock, then a little boy shuffled in, lugging a basin of water with exaggerated care.
Ting-zhi pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Wen-xin,” he groaned, “how many times must I say it? I’m perfectly capable of fetching my own wash water.
I don’t need a child who barely reaches my waist to perform this vital service. ”
The boy straightened, puffing out his chest with solemn pride. “But it’s my responsibility, Young Master!” His voice wobbled with earnestness, peach-blossom eyes wide, dimples flashing.
Ting-zhi eyed him, suspicion creeping in once again.
Those features were too uncannily similar to his.
If not for the fact that Wen-xin’s parents were both alive and well, he’d swear the esteemed Headmaster of Shen Clan School had fathered him a sibling in old age.
Nonetheless, he had no doubt his father had chosen Wen-xin to be his book boy purely for the sake of tormenting him with a miniature, dimpled reflection.
Ting-zhi splashed his face. Today’s gathering at the teahouse would be dull in comparison, but duty called. He selected a robe of deep indigo, the embroidery subtle but fine, and adjusted his scholar’s cap in the mirror. The reflection smiled cockily back.
PEAR BLOSSOM TEAHOUSE hummed with the low murmur of scholars, the scent of various teas curling through the air.
“Ah, Gu Ting-zhi!” Cheng-yi, his chubby friend whose family owned this teahouse and many more, waved him over. “Come and try these new pastries!”
Ting-zhi stepped inside the large private room, nodding to familiar faces as he slid into a seat.
“The prodigal son returns.” Laughter and greetings rippled around him, voices overlapping as fellow scholars called out.
“Tell us, how does it feel to have your father’s treatises practically written into the examination syllabus?” Scholar Zhang asked with a barbed smile.
Ting-zhi accepted a cup of tea with a lazy smile and glanced at him mildly. “A heavy burden, truly. Imagine the disappointment if I fail. My father’s reputation will crumble, and half the examinees will weep over wasted study time.”
Laughter rippled around the table. “As if you’d fail,” scoffed another. “With your father’s guidance, you’re practically guaranteed a top rank.”
“Ah, but taking the examinations is like swimming upstream,” Ting-zhi mused, brushing his thumb over his teacup.
“First, the local exams where you compete with everyone in the province who has learnt the classics and fancies himself a potential official. Then the provincial exams, where the real culling begins. And if you survive that, you get to freeze in the capital for the imperial exams, praying your ink doesn’t freeze mid-essay. ”
“Don’t forget the final hall examination in the Hall of Brightness where the top candidates will be assessed by the Emperor!” Cheng-yi added, leaning in. “They say he can tell a man’s worth in three questions.”
Ting-zhi smirked. “Or in one, if you’re unlucky.”
The scholars chuckled, but their eyes gleamed with the weight of ambition.
The imperial exams weren’t just a test—they were a ladder, and every scholar here was determined to climb it.
Aiming for the highest ranks was to attempt the carp’s leap through the Dragon Gate at the head of the stream.
Succeed, and one might become a dragon. Fail, and one would remain just another fish in the river.
Cheng-yi lowered his voice. “Speaking of that... I heard Princess Ming-yue will attend the Jade Grove Banquet next year.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. Then—
“Looking for a husband, you think?” someone ventured.
“Who wouldn’t want that alliance?” another murmured. “Marry the princess, and you’re practically imperial family.”
Ting-zhi took a slow sip of tea, hiding his amusement. “A dangerous game. The Emperor doesn’t strike me as the type to let his niece marry just anyone.”
“True,” Scholar Zhang agreed. “But if she does take notice... imagine the connections.”
The table erupted into speculation, voices overlapping.
“—has to be someone distinguished—”
“—or at least handsome enough to catch her eye—”
A finger jabbed toward Ting-zhi. “You! You’ve got the looks for it.”
He raised a brow. “Ah, but I lack the substance. The Princess would see through me in an instant.”
“Nonsense,” Cheng-yi scoffed. “You’ve got the charm, the pedigree—”
“And the modesty,” Ting-zhi drawled, earning another round of laughter.
The truth was, he had no interest in imperial politics or princesses. His mind was already elsewhere, on a certain someone who’d asked about dragon rods with wide, curious eyes.
The thought made his tea taste sweeter.
The afternoon passed while the scholars compared notes and argued over interpretations of classical texts and ways of governance.
Ting-zhi contributed when needed—a clarification here, a counterpoint there—but mostly, he observed.
By the time the gathering dispersed and lanterns were being lit outside, he had already mentally sorted them: who would place, who wouldn’t, and who might just surprise everyone.
When the sun dipped low enough to stain the teahouse walls in hues of amber and rose, the gathering began to disperse.
Scholars stretched, gathered their notes, and exchanged polite farewells, their voices still buzzing with half-finished debates.
Ting-zhi lingered near the door, adjusting the sleeve of his robe as Cheng-yi shuffled past, a distracted look on his face.
“Something on your mind?” Ting-zhi asked, falling into step beside him.
The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and flowers.
Cheng-yi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the pear trees lining the street wistfully.
A gust of wind blew, and a handful of golden leaves drifted lazily down onto the green flagstones.
“Do you know,” he began, voice so low Ting-zhi had to lean closer, “that the Princess likes pastries?”
Ting-zhi’s heart missed a beat as he stared at his friend. Since when?
But he smiled reassuringly at Cheng-yi, lifted the two wooden boxes of pastries in his hands and gave them a gentle shake.
“Your family’s teahouses serve the finest pastries in Shangjing,” he said, raising a brow.
“Crispy almond twists, black sesame pastries, those little steamed osmanthus cakes that melt in your mouth... Tell me, who wouldn’t like them?”
Cheng-yi’s expression brightened fractionally, but his shoulders remained slumped. “But what if she’s had better? What if she gets tired of sweet things?”
“Sometimes,” Ting-zhi said, steering them toward the street where the lanterns were beginning to flicker to life, “the simplest gifts are the most memorable. A jewel is forgotten in a drawer. But a pastry?” He grinned. “That’s an experience. And experiences, my friend, are far harder to ignore.”